


still with our hearts beating

by scarlettroses



Category: Newsies - All Media Types, Newsies!: the Musical - Fierstein/Menken
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Cancer, M/M, Major Illness, Modern Era, Seizures, uhhh some sad shit, very graphic depiction of a seizure!!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-22
Updated: 2018-10-22
Packaged: 2019-08-05 16:41:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,792
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16371278
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scarlettroses/pseuds/scarlettroses
Summary: albert is sick and finch is sad. for the request: “hush now, it’ll all be over soon.”





	still with our hearts beating

**Author's Note:**

> so i wrote this on tumblr for a request a while ago and recently decided it’s good enough to be its own fic on here! i’m actually very proud of this and i’ll consider writing a second part if people seem to like it!
> 
> caution: very sad. 
> 
> enjoy!

It’s quiet.

Too quiet, if you ask Finch. He’s never been one for silence and stillness— waiting makes him antsy, you see. He likes to always be on the move, not sitting quietly for hours and hours.

The only sound in the room right now is Albert’s soft breathing as he sleeps, and the occasional quiet clatter of the keys on Finch’s laptop as he tries to work his way through proofreading a lab write-up that’s due tomorrow.

There’s the odd noise out in the hallway, but the door is shut and mostly soundproof, so it’s not very bothersome. They’ve finally managed to get a private room after being on a waiting list for some time, and it’s incredibly nice to finally have their own space.

Finch has his feet propped up on the end of Albert’s bed while he leans back in the hard plastic chair that the hospital provides, willing himself to actually get his homework done.

It’s hard, though. It’s really hard to convince himself to do much of anything lately, when every day is so long and exhausting. His schedule at the moment consists of school all morning, work all afternoon, and spending the whole evening in this hospital room, sitting next to Albert’s bed and trying to be strong for him.

All he can think of tonight is that they should be planning their wedding right now. The date they’d been planning for is just five months away— they should be looking for suits and picking out flowers and booking a caterer. Not agonizing over what will happen if this round of chemo doesn’t work. Not wondering what they’ll do if Albert can’t get better.

This isn’t fair. This isn’t _fucking_ fair. They’ve done nothing to deserve this. They’re just two kids, neither of them even twenty-three years old yet, who are _so fucking in love._ All they want is to be together, happy and safe, but now there’s a tumour in Albert’s brain and every day is a little bit harder than the one before.

It sucks. It really does.

Finch looks over at Albert and feels the first real smile he’s shown all day begin to tug at his lips when he notices his fiancé’s eyes start to flutter open.

He sets his laptop off to the side and slides his chair closer to Albert’s bed.

“Hi sweetheart,” he whispers, gently brushing a loose lock of ginger hair off of Albert’s forehead as his eyes open up. The chemo hasn’t caused his hair to fall out yet, as they’re still quite early on in treatment, so Finch is making sure to touch it and play with it while he still can. “It’s nice to see you.”

It takes a moment for Albert to _really_ wake up, but he smiles blissfully when his gaze falls on Finch.

“Hi,” he mumbles, clearly trying not to let his eyes fall shut again. “You’re _here_.”

It’s somehow heartwarming and heartbreaking at the same time, the way Albert gets so excited to see Finch every day. He’s been having some memory problems, due to the tumour, so each day is a happy surprise when he wakes up to see his fiancé because he can’t necessarily recall if he was there the day before.

“Of course I am,” says Finch, softly, still brushing his fingers gently through Albert’s hair. “Every day, babe. I missed you.”

Albert takes a second to process it, but he eventually laughs softly and reaches up to try and hold Finch’s hand. Finch obliges, intertwining their fingers and then letting them rest on the sheets.

“Finch…” Albert trails off, trying to get a sentence together, something he’s been having trouble with lately. “Do… um, I— do the cats miss me? ‘Cause I miss 'em a lot.”

Albert asks this often, nearly every day, and Finch patiently answers him every time.

“Yeah, they do, love,” he says, rubbing his thumb on the back of Albert’s hand. Their two rescue cats, Katy Purry and Catrick Swayze— named by Albert himself with a handful of help from Race— still remember the spot on the couch that was Albert’s favourite, where they would curl up on his lap in the evenings. Finch has left a big, soft blanket in that particular spot and he often catches the cats napping there, like they’re waiting for Albert to come home. “I always see them sleeping in your favourite spot.”

Albert grins at that and sits up a little higher than the bed already had him propped up. This is a good sign— sitting up on his own tells Finch that he’s got a little more energy than usual.

“Tell 'em I’ll be home soon, okay?”

There’s such a hopeful glint in Albert’s eyes that Finch starts to feel a little better himself. Things are bad, sure, but he still has Albert around, which is really all he can ask. And, well, treatment has been going better than they’d expected. He has chemo doses three times a week, radiation therapy every Tuesday, and they’re hoping that by the end of the month he’ll be able to go in for his first surgery of the three or four required to remove the tumour. It’s all going well— as good as it can, at least.

“Alright, I’ll tell them as soon as I get home,” says Finch, laughing softly. “Say, didn’t Race and Spot come by today? How was that?”

Albert takes a second to think before he responds, something that isn’t out of the ordinary lately.

It’s not like he’s lost any intelligence, being sick— it’s just that he seems to go about everything a lot more slowly, as his memory tends to fail him sometimes, and it just takes him a lot longer to comprehend what people tell him. When he has time to think and process things, he’s nearly just like his old self again.

“Oh yeah,” says Albert, who seems a lot more awake now— there’s a bit more clarity and less tired confusion in his eyes. He’s talking a bit faster and having an easier time stringing words together. “That was fun. Race wanted to put me in a wheelchair and see how fast we could go, but Spot wouldn’t let us, and—”

Albert suddenly cuts off, staring at the foot of the bed, his body going tense. He freezes there long enough for Finch to realize that something is definitely wrong.

“ _Shit_ ,” sighs Finch, immediately knowing exactly what’s happening. He has to ease his fingers out of Albert’s suddenly-vice-like grip and then carefully push his shoulders back to get him lying down in bed. “You’re alright sweetheart, try and stay with me.”

It’s probably useless to talk to him when he’s like this, but Finch always tries anyways.

Albert’s mouth is still open from being mid-sentence, and his muscles are so tense they’re nearly vibrating with the pressure. His wrists and fingers are contorted into uncomfortable-looking positions, and his eyes are open wide, staring blankly at the ceiling.

The seizures come on fast like this, most of the time. He could be totally fine, talking and laughing, but seconds later he’ll be tense and shaking. It’s sort of terrifying, how quickly things can change.

His mouth twitches a little, and then he yells loudly: an action totally outside of his control. He’s not saying anything, not even trying to, there’s no semblance of words coming out— he’s just _yelling_ , because even his vocal chords are seizing and there’s nothing he can do to stop it.

“ ** _Hush now_** ,” sighs Finch, pushing Albert’s hair back yet again. “ _ **It’ll all be over soon.**_ Hang in there, baby _ **.**_ ”

He knows Albert can’t hear him; he’s not at all conscious, despite the fact that his eyes are open. The doctors have said this before, that Albert can’t see or hear anything during a seizure, but that won’t stop Finch from trying his fucking best to help in any way he can.

Albert yells again, and then it fades into a pained whine as he closes his mouth and clenches his jaw. He looks as if he’s fighting against his own body— trying to move but it won’t let him.

The whining continues when he starts to slam his head repeatedly against the pillows behind him and his arms and legs begin to jerk and shake. This is the second part of the seizure, where he tenses and relaxes so quickly that he’s just stuck convulsing horribly until it eases to a finish, which can take up to several minutes.

Albert’s crying now, and there’s a bead of drool coming out of his mouth. He’s gasping for air in a choking noise that sends shivers down Finch’s spine.

Finch isn’t sure how long it lasts, but it feels like just as suddenly as it had started, it’s coming to an end. Nurses had rushed in partway through, working around Finch to get some oxygen flowing in Albert’s nose and to start suctioning away the spit around his mouth. There’s monitors attached to Albert’s head that send an alert to the nurses when he starts to seize, Finch hadn’t even needed to call for them.

“Thank you,” he says quietly as they work, the full weight of his exhaustion hitting him like a train, now that Albert is still and everything is calm. He’s probably got twenty minutes or so before Albert comes to, and he’s genuinely considering fitting in a power nap. “You guys are incredible.”

The nurse who isn’t busy getting Albert’s oxygen tubes set up properly in his nose turns to Finch with a gentle smile.

“You’re an amazing husband,” she says, making Finch blush awkwardly at the compliment and not bother to tell her they aren’t married yet. She gestures to Albert as she continues. “He talks about you _all the time_. I know you’re probably stressed-out about all this, and exhausted, I bet, but you don’t ever let him see that. You’re the best kind of support he could possibly have; it’s really been helping him.”

Finch is so tired that all he can do is nod his thanks. He’s leaning against the side of Albert’s bed, nearly falling asleep, so he hopes that his smile and nod convey just how much he appreciates her words.

The nurses finish up with Albert and turn to head out of the room. That same nurse stops in the doorway, though, and says:

“I just hope you know… you’re doing a really good job. Albert tells me every day, that he thinks _Patrick is the best guy in the world_. He loves you a lot. Keep hanging in there.”

For the first time in ages, Finch starts to think that everything might turn out okay.

 

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading! as far as right now, whether albert is ok or not is open to interpretation, although i have some pretty heartbreaking headcanons on the topic that i might eventually write. 
> 
> please leave a comment, opinion or even a complaint below to let me know what you thought of this!


End file.
